Is That Eomer Chasing Faramir Down the Hall?
by Nefertiri's Handmaiden
Summary: Maybe PG13, but not really. This is actually a collection of stories explaining the title. Should you have any ideas for a future chapter, please submit them in a review and I will gladly base a chapter on them. UPDATED!
1. Why I Do Believe It Is

Is That Eomer Chasing Faramir Down the Hall?

I do believe it is, my good friends.

Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings. I have never owned Lord of the Rings, nor will I ever. I don't own anything affiliated with Lord of the Rings. Now that we have that cleared up, let's get on with the story, shall we?

Note: This is actually a collection of stories, all explaining the events of the first chapter. That's this one! I think you'll enjoy it.

-

Faramir was getting some odd looks.

No. Correction:

Faramir was getting a whole lot of looks saying he was completely insane.

However, Faramir didn't really care because at the moment we was running at break-neck speed down the corridor, and Eomer was right behind him, brandishing a very intimidating sword and shouting threats that made Faramir wish he was faster. Much faster.

Unfortunately, he was not. And he was tiring. Maybe there was somewhere to hide.

Maybe a soldier would see and rescue him from Eomer.

Maybe Elessar would show up and rescue him.

Maybe Eowyn would show up and rescue him.

Doubtful.

So he would just have to rescue himself.

"FACE ME LIKE A WARRIOR, SON OF GONDOR! WILL YOU TURN SO EASILY FROM THE ROHIRRIM? WILL YOU NOT FIGHT LIKE A MAN?"

Or not.

Faramir did not wish to challenge Eomer. Said King of Rohan was good with a sword, and he was very angry. That was not a good combination. Faramir letloose a string of curses to himself and wished that he really wasn't in this position.

Oh, Valar.


	2. The Hunt of Faramir the Great

The Hunt of Faramir the Great

An explaination of why Eomer is chasing Faramir down the hall brandishing a very large sword.

Good luck, Prince of Ithilien.

By Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: Blah de blah blah blah. Blah blah de blah. Blah. (Translation: I don't own it, but you already know that.)

Note: Random stupid fluffy fluff. I wrote it when I was bored, sore and tired from Practice, and waiting for my stupid roommate to get out of the shower at 9:30 at night.

-

Faramir chuckled to himself as he hid behind one of the many stone columns that supported the halls of the Citadel of Minas Tirith. The slightly drunk – no, _very_ drunk – Steward of Gondor was waiting for Eowyn to return to her rooms for the evening. The small part of his brain that was still sober told him that he would regret all the alcohol he'd had in the morning, but the rest of him told that part to shut up.

The small drinking party he'd had with King Elessar, Gimli, Legolas, and Mithrandir had been fun, and by the end all of them, excepting perhaps Gandalf (who had drunk very little, opting to smoke) and Legolas (whom it had taken seventeen tankards of finest Gondorian ale to even loosen up), were smashed enough that they would be severely hung over in the morning.

About fifteen minutes ago, the men had disbanded and gone their separate ways. Faramir had seen Aragorn stumbling off toward his chambers, and expected he was seeking his Queen. Legolas and Mithradir had ushered Gimli off to his room to sleep off the drink (he being far more tanked than any of the others).

Faramir had chosen to pay a visit to his betrothed, but when he'd reached her quarters, he'd found that she wasn't yet in. So, he decided to wait for her, and give her a bit of a scare when she returned.

This was why he was now hiding behind the column like an unruly child.

He kept a close watch out for Eowyn as drunken thoughts filtered through his head. He felt like a hunter stalking his prey. A mighty hunter. Hmm. A mighty hunter needed a mighty name.

Faramir the Strong? No, too obvious. Faramir the Sneaky? No, too stupid. Faramir the Smart? No: who cared if a hunter was smart, anyway?

Faramir the Great? Ah, there it was. Simple, yet precise.

Faramir the Great's thoughts were cut off as he saw Eowyn coming down the hall, carrying a basket that appeared to hold herbs and medicines.

His eyes narrowed and he focused in (at least as much as was possible for one so intoxicated) on his quarry. He took a deep breath. . . readied himself. . . and pounced.

Eowyn shrieked when she was grabbed from behind and dropped her basket, but her fear was short lived because it took her approximately seven seconds to deduce that her assailant was, in fact, her fiancé. She relaxed in his hold, and turned around to face him. Her nose wrinkled at the obvious smell of alcohol that Faramir emanated.

"Aha!" slurred Faramir triumphantly as he wrapped his strong arms more tightly around Eowyn. "It is I, Faramir the Great, and I have captured you, White Lady!"

Eowyn giggled at Faramir's playful manner as she chose to ignore his obviously inebriated demeanor – he _was_ more fun when he was drunk - and wrapped her arms around his neck. "So you have, fierce warrior. What do you plan to do now?" she asked in mock horror.

Faramir looked at her thoughtfully. "Hmm. Usually, I simply ravage the women I capture and then leave them. However, you are far more beautiful than any maid I have captured before."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You are indeed a fine woman. I do not think ravaging you once will be enough to sate my hunger." He heaved a sigh of feigned inconvenience. "Therefore, I suppose I will just have to wed you."

"On two conditions," she said.

"And what are those, my Wife-To-Be?"

"You will cease to capture poor defenseless damsels, and you will ravage only me."

"If I must," he sighed.

She smiled at him. "You must."

"Well then, you have my word on the matter, Eowyn of Rohan."

"What level of wit do you think I possess, to take the word of a drunk man?"

"Ah," said Faramir wisely. "It is when men are drunk that they are most trust worthy."

"Is it?"

"Hmm."

They smiled at one another, and Faramir lowered his head to kiss her. Their lips met, and he pulled her closer. Then, just when things were starting to heat up. . .

"FARAMIR!"

Faramir tore his lips from Eowyn's and glanced down the hall in the direction from which the shout had come. Eomer was sprinting down the corridor as fast as he could, pulling out his sword as he came.

"YOU _DARE_ DISHONOR MY SISTER, SON OF DENOTHOR! HERE, FOR ALL THE WORLD TO SEE!"

Faramir looked back at Eowyn. "I suppose I will have to ravage you later, my love." With that, he gave her a light peck on the cheek, and darted down the hall in the opposite direction.

"COME AND FACE ME LIKE A MAN, STEWARD OF GONDOR!"

Eowyn laughed as Eomer came barreling past her after Faramir. Then she hiked up her skirts and took off after them.

After all, it would not do to have her brother kill her groom before the wedding.


	3. The Steward, the King, and the Tent

The Steward, the King, and the Tent.

Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: Because I am lazy I have chosen to write a short and boring disclaimer this time; I do not own Lord of the Rings. So there!

Note: The second scenario explaining why exactly Faramir is being chased by Eomer. This idea was submitted by soxtheringwraith. Thanks a lot!

* * *

Faramir stumbled past a long row of tents, looking for a particular one. Where was it? It had to be around here somewhere. Unless, of course, the large amounts of ale he had consumed had affected his sense of direction, which was perfectly possible. The ale was most certainly affecting his rationality.

This was not a good idea.

He couldn't even find the damn tent.

Faramir had started drinking with his men and his wife about three and a half hours ago. They were in a particularly merry mood lately and persuaded him to join their drink-fest. He was in a merry mood himself, due to the nature of their travel, so he and Eowyn had allowed themselves to be pulled into the drunken fray.

And the men had the right to be merry. The party in which they were traveling was a wedding party. The wedding party of Eomer and Lothiriel, to be exact.

In attendance at this camp right now were the Kings of both Rohan and Gondor and their parties, the Queen of Gondor and her maids and servants, the Soon-To-Be-Queen of Rohan and her ladies-in-waiting and several servants, several Rohirric nobles all with subjects, the Steward and Stewardess of Gondor and their party, the nobility of Dol Amroth, not to mention multiple Gondorian courtiers, foreign ambassadors (including a delegation from the Dwarves which consisted of a certain elf-hating member of the Fellowship, and a delegation from the Mirkwood elves which consisted of a dwarf-hating member of the Fellowship; both of whom were quite drunk at the moment despite the elf's resistance to ale) their parties and politicians, and several hundred soldiers of various nationality.

After all, the complete royalty of several countries were present.

The wedding was to take place at a pre-determined point along the Gondorian - Rohirric boarder. Eomer and Lothiriel had decided it was best to be wed in both countries at once.

So the wedding party had come to the boarder.

Tomorrow the King of Rohan and Princess of Gondor would wed, sealing the alliance between Gondor and Rohan with yet another marriage, and yet another love.

But where the hell was that damn tent! He'd never be able to find it, as intoxicated as he was.

But no! There it was. A large white tent; a green banner embroidered with a horse in front of it.

Eomer's tent.

Excellent.

Attempting to summon some of his ranger-like stealth, Faramir slowed and stood silently outside the side of the tent. He swayed slightly, but managed to maintain his balance. He peeked around the corner, noting that the guards in front had fallen asleep.

Suddenly, there was a moment of clarity as he sobered slightly.

This was not an intelligent plan. This would most certainly end up coming back to bite him in the ass.

Then the clarity was gone as the alcohol took over again.

He knelt down next to the tent, and started to whisper in a high pitch.

"Eomer. Eomer, my love. Wake up."

* * *

Inside the tent, Eomer predictably awoke.

"Lothiriel?" he asked groggily. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it is I."

Eomer stumbled out of his cot and over toward the tent wall her voice emanated from. "What are you doing there? And why did you not just come in?"

"My father would not approve of such a visit. . . but. . ."

"But-" he prompted.

"But I could not stay away. I had to be with you."

"Lothiriel, talking through a tent canvas does NOT qualify as 'with.'"

"I know, love," 'Lothiriel' said softly. "But I had hoped you could slip away to the river, and we could, perhaps, bathe."

Eomer gulped. "Bathe?"

"Bathe."

"I – er – I – I don't know what to say. That does not seem wise, my lady."

The sound of soft sobbing filtered through the canvas. "Do you not desire me?"

"No, I do," Eomer said hastily. "I desire you very much."

"You say that only to comfort me."

"I do not. Lothiriel, wait there. I will come out."

There was a soft, "Hmm."

Eomer exited the tent, opting to ignore the sleeping guard for now, and stepped around the side to where Lothiriel should have been.

Of course, in her stead stood a very drunk, very smug-looking, very UN-Lothiriel Steward of Gondor.

He was grinning stupidly and his arms were folded across his chest.

Eomer stared.

Faramir chuckled.

Eomer turned bright red.

Faramir started pointing as he laughed.

"Ah, Brother," he managed between bursts of laughter. "Your intentions seem pure enough, but my Uncle would perhaps not look kindly upon your fraternization."

Eomer said nothing for a while, but his embarrassment quickly turned to fury.

"I suggest," he finally said, slowly and dangerously, "that you begin running, _Brother_."

Faramir stopped laughing. There was silence, and then Faramir gulped, turned on his heel, and sprinted away.

Eomer paused only long enough to pull the sword from the sleeping guard before taking off after him.

"FIGHT ME, SON OF NUMENOR! WE WILL SEE WHO IS LAUGHING IN THE END, TRICKSTER!"

* * *

Again, any ideas for another chapter would be great. Thanks! 


	4. A Lesson in Sharing

A Lesson in Sharing

Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings, and I know it, and you know it, and you know I know it, and I know you know and that you know I know it, and you all know that I know that you know that I know I know it and that you know, and I know you know that I know that. . . well, you get the point. We all know. We all know that we know, so let's not go around suing people who know that they know that we know that they know we know and. . .

Note: Part Three. It is, I admit, very short. But what are you going to do?

* * *

"FARAMIR!"

"Yes, Eomer?" responded Faramir calmly as he waved away the lieutenant he'd been speaking with.

They were three days out of Edoras on their way to Minas Tirith, and things had been going quite well between the King of Rohan and his brother-in-law.

Until now.

"Did you take that grain I was saving for Firefoot?"

"Er – no! I – I – er. . . Put it away. Yes, that's it. I put it away. For safe keeping."

"Are you suggesting that I cannot protect my own property, Steward?"

There was silence.

Suddenly Faramir pointed toward the plains behind Eomer.

"LOOK!" he shouted, "ORCS!"

Eomer, predictably, turned to look as he pulled his sword.

Faramir took off in the opposite direction.

Eomer, quickly realizing what was happing, spun back around and took off after him.

"GET BACK HERE, FARAMIR! I SHALL REND YOU LIMB FROM LIMB, SON OF NUMENOR!"

* * *

I like this one. Simple, yet funny. 


	5. The Boy King of Rohan

The Boy King of Rohan

Nefertiri's Handmaiden

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or anything affiliated with it. I know it. My agent told me yesterday, and it was a major let-down! I was in total shock. No, I don't own anything. Begins to cry uncontrollably. This goes on for a while and then she dries her tears.

Ok, so here we go.

Note: The fourth installment. Inspired by **percyismine**. Thanks for the idea! It's a great one!

Note the Second: Sorry this took so long to get up. I've been on vacation, and then at Band Camp. I haven't really had a lot of time to write. But it's up now, so no need to fret.

In addition. . .

**  
Bird Cordwangler:** First of all, yes, this all is a bit over the top, and in real life (or as close as a fantasy novel can get to real life) Eomer would probably just roll his eyes and pull Faramir away from Eowyn. However, this entire plotline is meant to be over the top and that, I believe, is what makes it funny.

Also, in the Dark and Middle Ages (the closet Earth periods that compare with Middle Earth), anything more explicit than hand-holding was considered improper (and THAT was pushing it). Not to mention that Faramir is high nobility and Eowyn in a Princess, and therefore expected to maintain an air of decorum. Such conduct would be scandalous!

---------

Faramir met Aragorn's eyes over the fire and they grinned at each other, their smiles hinting mischief. Then they turned their attention back to their comrade: one King of Rohan.

Correction: One very drunk King of Rohan.

Eomer was no stranger to alcohol. In fact, he was considered to be one of the finest drinkers in Middle Earth.

At the moment, despite how well he could hold his liquor, he was completely tanked.

Eomer was in Minas Tirith due to the yearly trip he took with his company and his wife (who at the moment was somewhere with Arwen and Eowyn). It had become a tradition that on this visits he meet with Aragorn and Faramir for a little drinking party.

'Little' being the understatement in the previous sentence.

Even Aragorn, who had lived far longer than either of the other two men in the room, could never remember anyone drinking so much in his very long lifetime. Ever.

They'd passed quickly through the stages of drinking; cheerfulness, happiness, giddiness, vulgar comments and jokes, offense, anger, fighting, crying, making up, sadness, more happiness, and so forth.

Currently, Eomer was singing loudly to himself in his native tongue. Faramir, who had learned the language to please his wife, understood some of what Eomer said but his words were so slurred Faramir doubted that even Eowyn would be able to understand him.

Aragorn and Faramir were also considerably drunk, but Eomer was making them look like lads who had never even looked at ale before.

Not that such circumstance was completely out of their control. They had a plan.

An evil plan.

Abruptly, Eomer stopped singing.

They looked at him.

He looked at them.

Then there was a heavy thud as Eomer fell backward off his seat and passed out.

Silence.

The fire crackled, and Faramir and Aragorn stood. They grinned evilly at each other, and Faramir pulled a knife from its sheath in his boot. He looked at Aragorn.

"Are you certain this is a good idea?"

Aragorn smiled. "Of course. Would your King lead you astray?"

Faramir smiled back and knelt next to Eomer's unconscious form. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he placed his dagger against Eomer's throat, and pulled upward.

----------

When Eomer came to he had an aching head and a very cold face. For a moment he couldn't even move. Then he groaned.

"Aaurraaugh."

There was soft chuckling from around him. "I feel your pain, brother," a voice said. He opened his eyes. Aragorn and Faramir were standing over him, grinning.

"Up you get," said Aragorn.

Eomer groaned again. "Not so loud. I feel like there is a dwarven mine inside my head." He allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position by the King and Steward of Gondor. He rubbed his eyes. "How much did I drink last night?"

Aragorn and Faramir looked at each other.

"Far too much," said Faramir.

Eomer mustered up as much of a glare as he could in his present condition. "I could tell that much for myself." A new thought struck him. "Lothiriel is going to kill me." His head sank into his hands, and he rubbed his face.

Then he went stock still.

He ran a hand over his chin again.

Suddenly a pounding headache and an angry wife were the least of his problems.

He looked up slowly to see that Aragorn and Faramir had taken several steps back and were grinning at him.

"Which one of you did it?"

"What's that, Eomer King?" asked Aragorn with a chuckle.

"Which one of you shaved my beard?"

Aragorn, laughing loudly, pointed to Faramir, who was grinning nervously. Eomer pulled himself to his feet.

"Are you amused, Steward of Gondor?" he asked, deadly calm.

". . .Yes?"

"You find it funny that you've made the King of Rohan look like a child just off his mother's breast?"

"Er. . ."

As Faramir stumbled for words Eomer glanced around , searching for something.

Faramir stopped rambling abruptly as Eomer picked up his sword and unsheathed it.

Silence. Even Aragorn had stopped laughing. Eomer glared at Faramir.

Suddenly the door to the chamber opened and Elfhelm entered. He was studying a parchment of some sort. "My Lord, the West Mark-" He looked up and stopped mid-sentence. "My Lord. . . what happened to your beard?"

"I do not wish to talk about it," said Eomer darkly through his teeth, still glaring daggers at Faramir.

There was silence for a moment and then Faramir turned on his heel and bolted for the door, past Elfhelm into the corridor. In a flash Eomer was after him, brandishing his sword and cursing loudly in Faramir's direction.

"MAKE ME LOOK LIKE A LAD NOT OUT OF HIS TENTH SUMMER! I WILL REND YOUR ARMS FROM YOUR BODY AND BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH THEM, SON OF NUMENOR! FACE ME, STEWARD!"

Elfhelm and Aragorn looked at each other for a moment and then sprinted after Faramir and Eomer.

Perhaps the King of Gondor _had_ misled one of his subjects.

This could not possibly end well.


End file.
